I hope I don't offend anyone when I say you ought to eat as many Pringles as you can manage. I ate an entire can of Pringles tonight, to celebrate my negative chlamydia test, and I curse myself for not buying a twin pack so as to enjoy that crispy, salty potato flavor even as I type these words.

I only buy Original Pringles. No reason exists to mess around with Sweet Mesquite Barbecue or Sour Cream & Chive seasonings when the Original variety is perfect, and therefore impossible to improve.

Sometimes, when I eat Pringles, I empty the can into my green glass serving bowl, turn "ESPN Jock Jams" up to volume level 6, and drink screwdrivers till dawn (or midnight, whichever comes first). When I leave for work the next morning, I make certain to apologize to my neighbors for keeping them up until all hours. "Sorry about all the ruckus," I say, laughing sheepishly. "I had a party last night and it got out of hand."

I think it's sexy how the Pringles fit together so nicely, as though they were spooning. Sometimes I try to explain this to pretty girls at the grocery store. "Don't you think Pringles are erotic?" I say with a suggestive smile. I don't think it's cool to have your boyfriend beat someone up in the Safeway parking lot just for being in touch with his sexuality.

Some freedom-hating people, like Eric Piotrowski, think you shouldn't eat Pringles because they are manufactured by Procter & Gamble, an evil multinational corporation that forces six-year-old boys to stitch Pringles together by hand in Malaysian sweatshops. I easily refute these arguments by pointing out that Pringles are delicious.

(Please don't tell Eric Piotrowski that I eat Pringles.)

When someone asks who you would meet if you could meet anyone, you're supposed to say Jesus or Harvey Keitel, but I always say I want to meet Mr. Pringle. He looks confident and sophisticated with his Fu Manchu mustache and bow tie, but you can't miss the jaunty gleam in his eye. Maybe I could pretend to have terminal leukemia so I could meet Mr. Pringle through the Make-A-Wish program. I bet he would take me to dinner and ask me all kinds of questions about myself, and while we waited for our entrées he would smile this incredible smile and tell me I have beautiful eyes. Later we would have sex. That doesn't make me a homo, though.

I like how every Pringle is the exact same shape and size, so you know exactly what to expect every time you put one in your mouth. True, sometimes there are a few broken Pringles at the bottom of the stack, but that's like life, where some people are retards or speak languages other than English.

+posted by Lawrence @ 6/14/2004 09:18:00 PM